


Mind

by Mohini



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 19:24:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1659677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mohini/pseuds/Mohini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I've lost my mind. It's the only explanation for falling apart in the arms of a boy who by all rights should hate me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mind

**Author's Note:**

> Previously posted under the user name Medireh at The Hex Files
> 
> Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Interhouse party the first is in full swing in the Room of Requirement. The seventh and eighth years are nearly all here, with a few exceptions from Hufflepuff. Apparently badgers don’t drink. Thankfully the rest of us realize that the only hope of erasing seven years of hostility and a war in which quite a few of us fought for opposite sides is with a very impressive supply of alcohol. The bar is a thing of wonder, the combined effort of Seamus Finnegan and Blaise Zabini. As it turns out, there is not a form of liquor available on the planet that those two can’t get into a crate and up to this room. I can only imagine how long they’ve been stocking up.

It’s obvious after a few hours that a lot of people have never had Muggle alcohol. Those used to firewhisky and mead tend to make very interesting expressions when faced with a rum and cola or the weird neon blue creation that one of the Muggle-borns from Ravenclaw keeps insisting people try. I grew up with every form of alcohol available at any time. Father liked to drink. Mother liked it even more. Me, I liked to escape, and in all honesty, I didn’t care who made it as long as it made me numb for a little while.

Numb. Yes, that is the feeling I’m chasing tonight, here in the party suite that is in some way the place where I watched a friend die in flames. Pansy flits around the room, a drink in her hand at all times, although I rarely see her bring it to her lips. Pans doesn’t drink. Empty calories, she tells me. Personally, I think she could do with an empty calorie or fifty. She’s always been thin, but this year she is a walking skeleton. Pansy is shadowed by Hermione Granger of all people. The tiny Gryffindor is rarely more than a few steps away from her, often with a hand resting on Pansy’s narrow little waist. It was a hell of a scandal early in the year, when someone caught those two kissing in a corridor. I’m just glad Pans has someone. I gave up finding anyone a long time ago. Too many choices made that can’t be unmade now. Too many mistakes that are going to follow me around like neon Muggle advertisements for the rest of my life. 

I’m beginning to think I’ve had too much. I’m becoming positively maudlin. There’s only one cure for that. More alcohol, enough to drown out the self pitying thoughts until my brain is quiet again. Maybe I’ll get lucky and find the perfect amount tonight, enough to find that elusive moment of peace without the unpleasant fringe benefits involving rather personal encounters with toilets. To shut up the litany of random thoughts, I head back to the bar and pour myself a very large tumbler of vodka. I like the way it bites on the way down, the burn reminding me that I’m still alive, still feeling, still here at the same time that it dulls the sharp edges of my consciousness just enough. 

Next to me, Harry Potter is pouring an equally substantial measure of whisky into a tumbler of his own. I would have expected him to be a lager sort of person, perhaps with the occasional gin and tonic for variety. But no, Potter turns out to be the sort who drinks his whisky neat and in quantity. I’ve been watching him down the stuff all evening, and like myself, he remains steady on his feet. I finish my drink and reach for the bottle of vodka when a large, careworn hand picks it up and pours several shots into my glass before refilling his drink and stepping away. The boy is an enigma. We don’t antagonize one another as we once did, but neither would I call us friends. We have managed a peaceful coexistence. 

I’ve been wandering for quite a while, with several more trips for refills, when I realize that the room has taken on the unfortunate quality of being rather fuzzy looking. Fuzzy is bad. Things get fuzzy not too long before my legs lose the ability to communicate with my brain and I start giving up on basic things like walking. I should know better than to take my fuzzy vision over to the bar for another refill, but somehow, the idea of just passing out and not feeling anything is sounding unusually attractive. I don’t know why. I pour a few shots and drink quickly, trying to get as much down as possible before I can’t manage any more. I step somewhat unsteadily away from the bar and realize with annoyance that the communication breakdown has occurred. I sway, grasping out for anything I can reach in an attempt to avoid collapsing. 

Something wraps around my waist, and I am pulled tightly against something solid. Someone solid. “Whoa there. I think you’ve had enough,” I hear someone saying inches from my ear. “I’ve got you. Let’s get out of here, alright? Keep your feet under you and I’ll take care of the rest.”

I have no idea who is holding me up, but the voice is familiar and soothing. I focus on moving my feet as my unknown rescuer guides me out of the room and down the corridor. I hear the muttering of a password and vaguely realize we are entering the Prefects’ bathroom. My vision is well beyond fuzzy now. It feels like everything I’ve had has suddenly caught up to me and is conspiring to knock me flat. “Sobering spell okay with you?” the voice asks me. I shake my head frantically. I didn’t work this hard to get drunk just to have it taken away a moment later. 

“Fine. Just tell me if you’re going to be sick, okay? I’m dreadful at cleaning charms.” I hear the incantation for a strong sobering charm, but since there is no change in my thoroughly wasted state I know it is directed at him rather than me. I’m a little worried, since not even I’m crazy enough to perform a sobering charm on myself. I am lowered onto what I could have sworn was a bench when we walked in. It is now a plush chaise, complete with pillows. I use what little conscious thought I still have control over to take a very good look at the person who is now sitting beside me, looking awfully concerned. Potter. Of all the luck in the world, I had to get utterly pissed and have Potter as my fucking savior. Lovely.

“I’m fine,” I mumble. 

“That does seem a condition generally associated with passing out in a room full of people, half of whom would love an opportunity to hex your bits off,” he tells me. When did he get to be so damned mouthy?

I would have continued pondering that little point of interest, but the connection between my brain and stomach seems to have become active once more. I barely manage to suppress a moan nausea intensifies. “Going to vomit,” I whisper, one hand pressed to my mouth and hoping he has a plan to get me from where I am to the toilet across the room, because I certainly am not capable of walking. I am practically airborne as he grabs me and hauls me to the toilet. I would have protested, but all I can think as my knees hit the cold floor is that I’m really fucking glad I didn’t have to try to get here myself before the nausea morphs into violent retching. Vodka, it turns out, does not burn as pleasantly on the return journey.

Somewhere in the middle of my stomach attempting to expel itself through my mouth, I realize that he is holding me upright. I gag and heave hard enough that it is impossible to take a breath without pain. The sensation is so much like being under crucio that I fear a panic attack will be next on my list of very embarrassing things to do tonight. I can hear Potter telling me it’s okay, that it will be over soon. I hold tight to those words, hoping he’s right. I don’t remember it finally stopping, but I feel a cool cloth bathing my face and he is helping me back to my feet, leading me to the Transfigured bench/chaise. “How much did you drink?” he asks, his voice incredulous. I shrug. I really have no idea. Too much. 

The effort of keeping my eyes open is too hard, and I drift. I wonder if he will leave me here. I don’t want to be alone. I’m always alone. I don’t remember starting to cry. I notice when a calloused thumb swipes the tears from beneath my eyes. “Never would have taken you as a crying drunk,” he murmurs. 

“I’m full of surprises,” I reply, trying to be witty and probably only half managing to sound just plain stupid. This night cannot get worse. There is no way. And then I realize it can. “Gonna be sick,” I manage to get out, before my stomach begins convulsing yet again. The boy is fast. Very, very fast. A conjured bucket is under my chin before anything makes its way out, and he is beside me, holding the bucket so it doesn’t slip from my less than coordinated hands. I just want to pass out. This hurts. It was supposed to make me numb, and I just hurt. 

The vomiting gives way to dry heaves, which seem to last forever. Yet still he is beside me, and somewhere in the last several minutes, the arm that is not clutching the bucket is wrapped around me, and I am practically in his lap, vomiting up my entire digestive system. When it stops this time, I flop against the warm body that is so close to mine. “I’ve got you,” he repeats. I decide I have lost my mind when I curl up into a little ball, pressing myself tightly against him. I decide he has lost his when he wraps his arms around me and holds on tight. I am shaking so badly that it is making my head hurt. I’ve been this drunk before, quite a few times actually, but I have always passed out in my bed alone and woken up to soiled sheets. I don’t know what to do with someone actually taking care of me.

I know, in some faraway part of my brain that still functions, that he must be very drunk as well. I know he had very nearly as much to drink as I did. Maybe that’s why he has lost his mind enough to be taking care of the mess that is me. I can’t bring myself to care, as the nausea rises once more and I choke and gasp while he holds me and keeps the bucket under my chin. I’m crying again, and I instinctively dig the nails of one hand into my forearm until I draw blood, trying to distract myself, trying to regain some control. I don’t know why I thought this was a good idea. I feel my fingertips being pried off my arm, and then the very odd sensation of the torn skin knitting itself back together under a gentle touch. How the fuck does he know wandless healing? Fuck. This is very, very not good. No one is supposed to know what I do when I need to calm down. Shit. Not good. 

“Calm down,” he whispers. I want to scream that I am trying. That it isn’t working. That telling me what I already know I need to do isn’t making anything better. “Draco,” he is  
whispering again, so close I can feel his breath against my ear. “Steady now, you’re alright.” As he speaks, I feel his hand wrap around the back of my neck. I stiffen, ghosts of memories making my blood run cold. Then I feel a tingle of magic flowing into me, and everything relaxes. My racing, out of control thoughts slow just enough and I can feel my breathing settling back into a cadence that doesn’t make me feel as though my lungs are about to explode. A tiny part of me wants to fight this, wants to insist that I do not need this, that I absolutely do not need what is almost certainly some sort of calming charm. My face is damp, and I bring a shaking hand up to wipe roughly at the tears that won’t stop coming. I don’t even know why I’m crying, just that I can’t stop. He removes his hand from my neck and I burrow my head against him, not sure when he became so damn safe, so comforting, but not caring as long as I can get him to keep holding me. 

He is running his fingers through my hair in a gesture that is completely unlike the annoying habit Pansy has of playing with it when all I want is to be left alone. He is still talking to me, soothing nonsense words, telling me that everything will be alright. Nothing is alright, not ever, but it’s hard not to listen to him, harder still not to trust that calm voice that makes me feel so safe. I can hear my own voice occasionally, though I’m barely aware of speaking. The drunken ramblings of a broken little boy, begging not to be alone. This is insanity. It’s the only explanation. I have lost it entirely. Yet still I listen to him, telling me that he won’t leave me alone, that he’s not going anywhere. I close my eyes, and the heavy darkness of drunken unconsciousness is upon me almost immediately. 

I wake to the very unwelcome sensation of sunlight trying to bore its way into my brain. “Fuck,” I mutter, even with my eyes closed it hurts. My brain is exploding and my stomach is a mess. A cool hand covers my eyes and the light goes from piercing to tolerably dimmed as I hear someone conjuring curtains across the large windows that are clearly trying to kill me. I become more aware of my surroundings, and more importantly that I am curled up against someone. I mentally take stock of what I am wearing. All of my clothing is present and accounted for. I tentatively open one eye when the hand is withdrawn and I am met with piercing green eyes and unruly black hair. 

“Fuck no,” I whisper.

“No worries there,” he replies quietly, seeming to know that any louder and the already very painful headache will make me scream. “Gave yourself a nice bit of alcohol poisoning last night. We’ve been in here since around midnight.”

“Ugh,” is the only sound I can manage. Lucky for me, he understands and a rather familiar bucket is beside me immediately. I push my body into a sitting position, with the bucket in my lap. I breathe in shaky little pants for a while before the uncomfortable feeling gains enough strength to bring the contents of my stomach up. I’m vaguely surprised to find that while I am clutching the bucket for all I’m worth, a cool cloth is being draped over the back of my neck and my hair is being held back from my face. When I’m done, I collapse back onto the cushioned chaise and close my eyes, mortified to hear myself sighing when he bathes my face with a flannel and places a second cloth over my eyes. I feel the edge of a phial against my lips.

“Nausea potion. Drink it down. Then I’ll get you a hangover cure once we get out of here,” he tells me. I do as directed, grimacing as I choke down the bitter concoction. 

“Thank you,” I tell him, looking at him, trying to understand why in the world he was there, taking care of me. My head is still pounding, but the horrible nausea is at least under control. I hear him vanishing the contents of the bucket and then he sits down beside me. Barely realizing I am doing it, I lean against him and he wraps an arm around me. I feel incredibly vulnerable. It is not a pleasant sensation. 

“Probably a stupid question, but is there anything you want me to do?” he asks me. I shrug, not knowing how to answer. I want him to hold me until I feel better. I want to know why he didn’t leave me on my own last night, why he hauled me out of the party before I passed out. Some traitorous part of me wants to see if he kisses the way he holds me, just right. “I’ll try for less stupidity,” he says after some time passes and I give no answer. “Do you need a headache potion?” 

I nod, and try not to be surprised when he waves one hand in the air and a phial appears. I’ve seen Severus do similar things, Summoning from other rooms without the use of a wand. It has something to do with Apparition but I’m not quite clear on the concepts behind it. At least it explains how in the world he has potions on hand in a school bathroom. I drink the potion gratefully and settle back into my position against him. This should not feel so natural. I realize I am dozing off again when he shakes me gently.

“It’s nearly noon. We really should get out of here before someone tries to use the room and finds it warded. I blocked the entry pretty heavily last night, and I’m never quite completely in control of how strong my wards are when I’m drunk. I’ve got private rooms this year. Apparently my dorm mates don’t appreciate waking to screams five nights a week. You weren’t in much shape to get that far last night. Do you think you can walk alright now? You can go to sleep once we’re there, alright?”

“I’m sorry,” I try to tell him, hoping he’ll ignore how stupid I must sound. I don’t know why I still feel so awful. But the light hurts my eyes despite the potions, and I really, really don’t know if I can go anywhere without falling down. He wraps an arm around my waist and stands up, towing me up with him. 

“I’ve got you. You can rest soon.”

I nod, not trusting my voice. I feel like I’m going to cry again. I never cry sober. Ever. Hell, I rarely cry drunk! I hear him returning the chaise to its original form and then he tightens his arm around me, taking most of my weight. He leads me out of the Prefects’ bathroom and through the corridors. I manage to walk, but only just barely. I can’t seem to keep my head off his shoulder and even with my eyes open everything is blurred. He says something to a portrait near the Gryffindor common room and I follow him through the doorway. I all but collapse into a chair near the fireplace and he heads into another room, returning with a couple of phials in hand. Ignoring years of training to never, ever accept a potion without verifying what it is, I gulp down what he offers.

“Rehydrating Solution and a Restorative Draught mixed into a standard Hangover Cure,” he tells me as he drinks his as well. “One of Mione’s creations. Rather useful to keep around, especially after nights like that. Now, mind to explain just why you’re trying to drink your way into an early grave?” 

I blink a few times, my vision still a little hazy. I am so tired that my typical defenses are practically nonexistent. “Just trying not to feel for a little while,” I answer, shocked at the honesty coming out of my mouth. 

“Now that I can understand,” he tells me. He holds out a hand to help me out of my slumped position, I accept, and sprawl across the bed in the room he leads me into. “I’d be lying if I said you didn’t scare me just a little. You were really out of it for a while there. Get some rest, okay? I’m going to go crash on the sofa in the sitting room.”

I can’t stop the panic that rises in my chest like some kind of animal. “Don’t leave me,” I whisper, fighting with everything I have to not grab for him and hold on as tight as I can. I do not want to be alone. I feel so strange, so disconnected and confused and scared and I just want to be held. I don’t realize I’m shaking until he takes both of my hands in his and holds them steady. 

“Come here,” he says softly, and I practically throw myself into his lap when he sits down. “I’ll stay. It’s alright. I’ll stay.” 

He keeps one arm around me as he kicks off his shoes and slides into the bed, pulling the covers up over us. I press as much of me against him as I can manage, clinging tightly. “Draco? Talk to me. Tell me what’s going on in that brain of yours.”

He holds me against his chest as he speaks, and I can feel that same strange calming sensation from last night washing over me. I should be freaking out. He has seen me fall apart. No one sees me like this. Ever. I take a deep breath and answer him, once more with honesty that I was not expecting from myself. “So fucking scared. Nothing is what it should be and I can’t think and I can’t sleep and nothing helps. I go to class and I don’t remember what I wrote when I look at the notes. I sit at meals and I must be eating but I never remember what I had. I feel like a fucking ghost and everything fucking hurts. All the time. The mark burns when I sleep, and everyone knows what I am and no one is ever going to forget. I’m fucking 18 years old and nothing is ever going to work out for me because I was an idiot and let Father tell me how to think. I just want it to stop. Just for a little while. I have to be perfect, all the time. Perfect grades, perfect leader for a house where half my friends are dead and half the ones who aren’t are in Azkaban.” My voice breaks off and I can’t manage to get another word out. 

I should be ashamed. Crying like this in front of someone I’ve spent my entire school existence trying to best. I’ve never let myself really think on it, to really think about why this year is so painful, why I hate myself so much now. It’s not like I didn’t have nightmares before. Father took me on raids in Muggle villages before sixth year. The first time I watched one of the Death Eaters rape a woman, I vomited and Father nearly beat me unconscious. I’ll never get those images out of my head. I feel like a complete failure. All I wanted was a few hours peace, just a few hours. Instead here I am a shaking, sobbing mess curled up in the arms of someone who by all rights should hate me. 

I know logically this should be comforting. Knowing that he has seen me fall to pieces and is still here should be reassuring. But my brain has clearly abandoned all logic and I am, if anything, shaking harder. It’s getting harder to breathe and the room has started spinning on me. I’m hyperventilating and I’m fairly certain I’m going to vomit. I try to tell him this, but I can’t make the words make sense. “Shhhh,” he tells me. “Nice deep breaths for me. You’re alright. In and out, nice and slow,” and without question I follow his voice. I’m calming down, the spinning eases, and I am starting to feel a lot less like I’m going to vomit on him when I notice that the soothing is coming largely not from his voice but from his hand, planted firmly on my back. The point of contact tingles with the flow of magic. Calming charm. Again. Damn. I am officially hopeless. What in the hell is wrong with me?

As the panic fades, I feel practically boneless. It probably doesn’t help that I skipped my meals yesterday in an effort to get drunk faster at the party, and then spent the night puking. Harry still has his arms around me, one hand still against my back and the other tracing up and down one arm. My left arm. The one with a tattoo that I’ve made a fairly concerted effort to eradicate via razor blade. Not that it helped much, but the snake is now covered with scarred over lines. I feel the beginning of yet another panic attack, and almost immediately that weird tingle is back, stronger this time. “What am I going to do with you?” he murmurs, and I don’t know what to say. “Draco? Do you want me to just knock you out for a bit? A sleeping charm so you can sleep this off? I can if you want.”

I’m absolutely terrified by this option, and yet I nod in response. I hear him whisper an incantation, ” _Somnius_.” It is one of the better sleep charms, one that creates a dreamless, but otherwise relatively natural sleep. Unlike most of the sleep charms, it is possible to rest while under it. It also doesn’t cause instant unconsciousness. I can hear him whispering reassurances in my ear as I drift and finally give in to the pull of sleep. It is evening when I wake. Harry has moved from the bed to a fluffy chair beside it, a textbook open in his lap. He looks up when I prop myself up on one elbow.

“Feeling any better?” he asks.

“Yes. I think I’m finally sober this time.” I push myself up to a sitting position. Instant dizziness. I didn’t see him move, but he has a hand on me, steadying me, within seconds. The dizziness fades after a moment. “Okay, maybe I spoke too soon. I will be better once I have something to eat.”

He helps me out of the bed, one arm firmly around my waist to keep me from falling and we make our way into the little sitting room. A tray is waiting on a small table, a preservation charm keeping it at a reasonable temperature. “Soup, bread, pumpkin juice, and I think some fruit,” he tells me once I am safely in a chair. I eat slowly, not completely trusting my stomach but definitely hungry.

I manage to eat maybe half of what is offered before pushing the tray away. Potter is politely out of the way, buried in a textbook. “So,” I start, not really sure what to say. I decide to just go with the truth. “This is awkward.” 

“That would be one word for it, yes,” he agrees. “You’ll have to forgive my lack of social graces, but what is the protocol for the morning after, well, that?”

“I have no idea. Alcohol poisoning and panic attacks were not covered in any of Mother’s etiquette lectures,” I tell him quickly, hoping to make some of the weirdness of the entire situation fade.

“I suppose it all works out fine if neither of us knows what to do here, right?” He sounds as nervous as I feel. “I’ll just get this out of the way, then. The last time I had a boy in my bed, I woke up to the worst hangover of my life, a very sore arse, and a Muggle in need of Obliviating when my house-elf showed up with a hangover potion and a jar of soothing balm. If you ever need to know, Muggles do not react favorably to house-elves. They handle a wand pointed their way even worse. You’re a hell of a lot better looking and have happily downed quite a few potions from me in the last few hours. Not to mention, you feel absolutely right in my arms. You?”

All the air has just been sucked out of the room. The straightest boy in England has just informed me, in a roundabout and rather course way, that he is not quite so straight. Hell, he’s every bit as straight as I am, which is to say not one little bit. 

“You’re…” I sputter.

“Bent,” he replies calmly. “As are you if I’m not mistaken. Straight boys do not cuddle, no matter how pissed they are.”

“Damn,” I breathe. Apparently my ability to form coherent sentences has taken leave. Then he is in front of me, a hand tilting my chin upwards and he kisses me softly, one hand tangling in my hair. When he pulls back, I decide that every moment of hell last night was worth it. 

“Definitely not straight,” he muses. I wrap both arms around his shoulders and drag him down onto the chair with me. He straddles my legs and we do not speak again for quite a while. In fact, his tongue is down my throat when the door opens, and we are interrupted by an annoyingly familiar squeal.

“Draco! I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” I consider Avada Kedavra as a solution to my current Pansy problem, then remember that the savior of the Wizarding world is currently in my lap and would likely not approve of me using an Unforgiveable over his shoulder.

“Harry? What are you doing?” a second voice joins Pansy’s. From the look on his face, Potter might not mind that Unforgiveable after all.

“Kissing Draco,” he replies, his voice unnaturally calm as he shifts over until he is beside me in the chair. “Why are you in my room?”

I watch the color drain from Hermione’s face. Pansy actually takes a step backwards. “We were worried about you. You disappeared last night and no one had seen you. Well, either of you. Draco looked really horrid when you left and we were trying to find him and since you left together we thought maybe you knew where he went.”

“So you chose to ignore the locked door and barge in?” It is clear that he is not pleased. I don’t realize that I am tensing up until he begins rubbing my back. I lay my head on his shoulder and relax into him. 

Hermione appears to have regained her composure by this point and looks rather annoyed. Pansy, on the other hand, is slowly retreating toward the door. “Really, Harry. You don’t scare me nearly as much as you think you do. You would think you might appreciate a little concern, considering that you drank half the damn bar last night between the pair of you.”

“Half the bar? Really? I very much doubt that, Mione. Did you see how much Seamus and Blaise had last night?” 

“You know what I mean. It’s a wonder either of you left on your own power. Where were you all night? I know you weren’t in here because I checked. Twice.”

Harry is practically growling when he replies. “Prefects’ bathroom. Draco wasn’t feeling very well.” Beside him, I am grateful for the arm around me, because my headache is returning and the food I ate earlier is beginning to make my stomach cramp up. 

“You mean he managed to give himself alcohol poisoning, from the look of him,” Pansy corrects. She seems to have gotten control of herself again. 

“I’m right here,” I mumble, feeling weirdly exposed. I don’t know how, but Harry seems to sense how anxious I am getting, and wraps both arms around me before situating me in his lap, holding me tightly and placing one hand against my back. The now familiar calming charm flows through me, settling my stomach and easing the pounding in my head. I practically melt into him. I can’t seem to bring myself to care that I am ragdoll limp against him in front of two other people. 

After a few minutes, I am feeling better and manage to open my eyes. Pansy looks like she is going to faint. I vaguely realize that this must look absolutely bizarre. I barely allow her and Blaise to touch me these days, and we’ve known each other our entire lives. “Sit down before you fall over, Pans,” I tell her, my voice a lot less steady than I was expecting. She looks absolutely panicked, but does sink into a chair. 

“How much did you drink?” she asks me. I shrug. 

“Too much,” I tell her. It’s the only honest answer. I have no earthly clue how much vodka I drank. Nor am I altogether certain I’m ever touching the stuff again. Last night hurt. “I’m okay. Got my very own savior now,” I joke. Potter rolls his eyes but doesn’t counter my claim. His hold on me has loosened again and he has resumed his idle tracing of one hand up and down my forearm. Hermione is examining Potter with a calculating look.

“You were barely standing when you left. If you managed to babysit him, you did something to get it out of your system. How many sobriety charms did it take?” she asks him.

“One. Just enough to keep me on my feet. I had a sobering draught with me, too, so that helped. And then Draco was sick and I ended up on autopilot a bit. Had a hangover draught this morning. I’m fine.” I find myself staring at him. So that’s why he’s not fucking miserable. I had been wondering, considering he had been drinking every bit as heavily as I had.

“So,” Pansy interrupts, “Most of the upper years saw you two leave last night, draped all over one another. Do you think you might want to make an appearance at some point? Just so everyone knows you didn’t manage to kill one another?”

“Would that be the actual reason you two managed to get through a locked and warded door? To see if we had killed one another?” Harry asks, his voice steady but very, very cold.

“Um,” Pansy hedges. 

“Well, you see,” Hermione attempts.

“Should I fill the rest of that in for you? No one thought I’d hex you, Mione. So you got delegated to come see what was going on? How much is the pool up to? If I know Seamus, the bets started the moment we left.” I can’t tell if he is angry or just annoyed. Either way, I cringe a little and press myself closer to him, needing reassurance. He tightens the arm around me in response, turning and kissing my lips very softly. Then he looks back at the girls.

“Go and tell the curious masses that we have not killed one another. We’ll be at breakfast tomorrow. Until then, get out and do not try the wards again. I will not be as forgiving a second time.” 

Hermione and Pansy rise and practically run out the door. It closes behind them and Harry looks at it for a moment, before removing his wand from a wrist holder and reciting a steady stream of locking and warding incantations, ending in a really nasty hex that I sincerely hope no one activates. When he is finished, he turns to look at me. “So, hope you don’t mind me trapping you in here for the night. Thought it might be good to spend a little time together sober before we venture out into the land of gossip.”

I don’t really have a good answer, so I decide not to bother trying. I swing one leg over him and sit astride him, kissing him soundly before pulling back to look at him. “Answer enough?” I ask with a smirk.

“Answers like that will get you anything you want,” he tells me, and once more, we give up on conversation in favor of exploring with hands and mouths.


End file.
